


black/white

by robin_hoods



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Most of it is implied, Photography, Ramsay is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robin_hoods/pseuds/robin_hoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose never asks for the stories, and Theon doesn't offer them. (He already knows that men waiting at bus stops for buses that no longer come have plenty of stories to tell.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt at the kink meme:
> 
> Theon has scars and faded hair and awful memories and most of the time he wishes he could just disappear. Roose is an art photographer who thinks Theon would be a fascinating subject. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~~I have no idea whether this is any good or even if I wrote Roose right -- why am I freaking out about this so much. D: um yeah.~~

You never see his face.

There are pictures of broken teeth, sunken eyes and limp hair brushed behind an ear. When you put them all together, you see a photograph just as disjointed as the man on it, with his scabbed over knuckles and scars.

Roose never asks for the stories, and Theon doesn't offer them. (He already knows that men waiting at bus stops for buses that no longer come have plenty of stories to tell.)

Roose is all business when it comes to his photography; his eyes never wander, his directions are calm and direct, and any touches are fleeting, leaving Theon to wonder if he was ever touched at all. He spreads his lips when he is asked, a grotesque smile on canvas – one he thankfully never has to see. Roose is close, but never quite close enough; a fine line between work and private matters.

When Theon lies on the couch, at night, he can see the camera standing in the corner of the room, always watching, always ready.

He likes it, somehow: a camera is no blade, but perhaps it cuts even deeper.

The blinds are only half shut, and the light from outside reflects on the glass table inside. Theon stares at the shapes until he doesn't even know what he's looking at anymore, all reflections as distorted as he feels.

When his eyes fall shut at last, he dreams. Of Roose, of eyes as large as camera lenses, touches as sharp as nails, and isn't he more beautiful this way?

The professionality of his host stays, even when he's not behind his camera. Theon is glad his body is left to its own devices, left to grieve, and weep, and heal. Eventually, the scabs fall off, the darkness around his eyes fades – but the scars stay, and so does the white in his hair. Theon doesn't recognise himself; that's another man, another life, one that he remembers all too well.

(There is a pair of arms crossed over ribs you can count. A pair of feet on the beach, the small toe on the left foot missing. Scars have no twins, however, and there are too many on his back to pair up, far too many to count. The memories on how he received them are blurred, then sharp, with jagged edges, deep and shallow, some mortal, some dangerous, some barely even there at all.)

Roose does his best to capture them all while Theon sits on his knees, watching the slowly-moving strip of light on the wall above the couch, his hair brushing just past his shoulders. He makes a picture when Theon looks back, over his shoulder. Another when he looks down.

The sound of the shutter opening and closing has become a comfort, the only eye he has to bare himself to.

“Look at me,” Roose says, and Theon looks up, beyond the lens, into Roose's eyes. He imagines one of those hands gripping his jaw, forcing him to look up, keeping him steady until that what needs to be done is over. During the process, Roose never blinks, not once, and Theon's eyes start to water. It hasn't been that long since tears stuck to his eyelashes, and his cheeks tasted like salt. He was always told they did.

Pictures of dead animals frame Roose's walls. Roadkill, prey, all dead, all slowly decayed. Theon doesn't like looking at them. If he is a wounded animal, then what is Roose? Not that it matters, if he dies. His spirit has been broken, far too much to fix, and there are pieces of him missing that no one will be able to find. Least of all him.

It's why he doesn't understand why Roose would want to take photos of him at all. Theon would rather forget, before reality sets in, the memory of disinfectant settling in his nostrils. But photo after photo is taken, and Theon feels naked even with his clothes on.

During his stay, Roose does not invite him into his bed, but Theon does wonder. About his face, and his hands, and his cock. He wonders what his sheets smell like, how many pillows he has, whether he sleeps on his back or his side or his front. He imagines him sleeping just as rigidly as he stands, with his back straight, his face impassive.

But even a man like Roose must have his needs, Theon thinks. He might be discreet, but he is still a man, and Theon knows what men want – he wanted it too, once upon a time. Now, he just wants to feel wanted.

Theon never sits with him while he develops his photographs, isn't even allowed in the dark room. It's just as off limits as the bedroom, and the garage. He doesn't mind secrets, as there are many hiding underneath his own skin, but he has no doors to open, no windows to unlock. Sometimes, when the desire to _see_ becomes too much, he sits in the supply closet until it goes away.

The light from outside always hurts his eyes when Roose opens the door (the darkness is terrifying in its own right, but he derives comfort from it as well), and only his slightly raised eyebrows indicate his surprise (or indignation, or exasparation, or anger). “Have you been in there all day?”

He only asks the first time. The second, the third, the seventh, he just steps aside to let Theon crawl out. It's days, weeks, maybe even months later, and Theon has no idea how much time has passed, but his scars slowly fade and his ribs become less noticeable. His fear doesn't wither, however, and he's always afraid to catch a reflection of someone that he'd rather not see. (He still dreams of him.)

Roose always seems more familiar in the mornings, but it's not his face, or his expression that disconcerts Theon. He has long since accepted the man is not capable of affection, of showing it. Roose is all work, and no play. He'll disappear for long stretches at a time, comes back without saying a word.

Theon eats bowls of cereal at the kitchen table, listening to the sound of the ticking clock. He never opens the door if someone knocks, and if the phone rings when Roose is gone, he never picks up.

It's seven past eleven in the morning, and far off, in another room, the phone rings. Theon ignores it, and counts the indents on the wall, each separate cornflake sitting in his milk. It stops ringing, but several seconds later it starts again. Sometimes, it'll stop for a minute or two, and then it'll start over again incessantly. He's already bitten off his nails as far as he can, but it doesn't stop. When he finally slides off the chair, it must have been ringing for close to an hour.

Theon makes his way through the house, and stops in front of the door to the dark room. He can clearly hear the phone on the other side, and he rests his head against the wall, torn. Stop calling, he thinks. Stop calling, so I can leave. Please stop calling, so I don't have to go inside.

But whoever it is, they don't stop, and his ears ring even when the phone doesn't.

The door taunts him until Theon gets back to his feet, carefully approaches and turns the doorknob. It takes a moment to get used to the lighting inside, but it doesn't take him long to spot the phone on the corner of the desk, the display lighting up.

There's a line of photos spanning the length of the room, and Theon quickly closes the door behind him. They're pictures of hands. His hands, Theon notices while he stands with the ringing phone in hand. Pictures of knuckles, nail-less thumbs, a gaping hole where a ringfinger should be. He swallows, brings up the phone to his ear, and presses the Call button.

“I've been trying to call you for hours, Dad, why didn't you pick up? I believe I have some leads on Greyjoy – _finally_ – so that should be done with, soon enough. Can you believe that-- Dad? Are you listening?”

Theon takes a deep breath – and he remembers. The smile is not the same, nor is the face, the hair, the lips, the ears. Except for the eyes. Cold and distant, the colour of morning mist. The door to the dark room opens, but Theon doesn't remove the phone from his ear, even though he can't hear the words anymore.

“Hello, Ramsay,” he says, his mouth dry. The line quiets, and Roose closes the door behind him.


	2. alternate ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just reiterating that this is an _alternate ending_ , starting from when Theon entered the dark room, and _not_ a continuation.

There's a line of photos spanning the length of the room, and Theon quickly closes the door behind him, taking them all in. They're pictures of hands. His hands, Theon notices while he stands with the ringing phone in hand. Pictures of knuckles, nail-less thumbs, a gaping hole where a ringfinger should be. The fingers that do have nails have dirt underneath them. Blood, maybe. They're his fingers, but blue and black, belonging to a dead man. Theon manages to look in the mirror, in front of him. The phone lights up his cheek while it rings and rings. It's not so hard to imagine, now.

He isn't even surprised when Roose appears behind him, a ghost lurking in the shadows. The lighting makes his skin pale, and his eyes are bright spots in the darkness. When he holds out his hand, Theon wordlessly gives him the phone, but not before he has seen the caller ID. Ramsay. Roose turns it off, and puts it on the filing cabinet behind them.

“I am well aware that you know my son, Ramsay,” he starts. “I'm afraid he never quite learned how to be discreet, and his reckless behaviour, concerning you, was getting out of control.”

If that's what you want to call it, Theon thinks to himself. Roose puts a hand on his shoulder. “I need you to hear something,” he says, and steers him out of the room, to the bedroom.

It's just as clean as the rest of the house. The bed is carefully made, not an object out of place on the nightstand beside it. There is a wardrobe in the corner of the room, dark and imposing, and a mirror next to the door. He breathes in, but he doesn't smell anything, not even the faint smell of lemons that hangs in the rest of the house.

Roose opens the bottom drawer of the nightstand with a key, and takes out a box. When he notices Theon still standing in the middle of the room, he gestures to the bed. Theon suspects it's not an act of kindness, but he sits down anyway.

“Several months ago, I received a rather panicked phone call from my son. This is what he said to me.” He doesn't explain why there is a recording of his phonecall with Ramsay – but Theon has an inkling as to why he'd be making them.

There is the sound of static for a second or two, but Theon recognises the voice immediately once he starts talking, and his belly churns uncomfortably. “Dad, I can't-- it was an accident, I didn't mean to.”

“Didn't mean to what?” Roose's voice interrupts.

“He's dead!” Ramsay hisses into the line. “He's not breathing, I tried to-- it's not my fault. He brought this upon himself. He wasn't listening anymore, but he will, now, I know he will -- y _ou have to bring him back_.”

“You know I'm not allowed to do that, Ramsay,” Roose's voice calmly explains, and Theon's spine has turned to ice, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He doesn't remember this. He was-- he _left_ , and stood in the rain for hours. Hadn't he?

“You _have_ to!” Ramsay sounds near hysterics now, so unlike the man Theon knows he needs to suppress the temptation to laugh, because he hasn't heard anything this funny in a long time.

The call abruptly ends after that, and Roose locks the recorder away again, before speaking. “You know what this means, don't you?”

“I'm dead,” Theon says after a pause, and breathes in deeply through his nose.

“Not anymore.”

Roose doesn't smile when he sits down next to Theon, and he remembers. The son, after all, the son is just a shadow of the father.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I wrote a different ending, with more horror and dead bodies and general creepiness involved, but I didn't know if OP would want that. If anyone would still like to read it, I suppose I can post it?


End file.
